


Do Your Worst and Try Your Best, then I'll Let You Rest

by JebbaPeppa



Category: Red Dead Redemption, Red Dead Redemption 2
Genre: But Why Would You Be Reading Fanfiction About It If You Haven't Cried Yet, F/M, One Shot, Spoilers To All Hell, The Author Regrets Everything, The Author Regrets Nothing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-07
Updated: 2018-11-07
Packaged: 2019-08-20 00:08:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16544978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JebbaPeppa/pseuds/JebbaPeppa
Summary: (SPOILERS)Mary visits Arthur's grave as one last attempt to make amends, and she encounters someone very odd on that mountainside.





	Do Your Worst and Try Your Best, then I'll Let You Rest

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this instead of finishing up Charcoal Black's latest chapter, sue me.

    When a parcel came not even a month after Mary Linton had said her goodbyes to Arthur Morgan; informing her of his death, and the location of where she could properly pay respects; part of her wanted to deny that the news had sent a sharp jolt of regret down into her gut, and her chest numbed where her heart had split in two.  What Mary didn't even consider denying that what she had with Arthur would have never come to fruition, and that part of her reasoning for cutting him off was the expectation of this exact thing happening.  And here it was, the worst possible outcome of his lifestyle, a nightmare come true in her hands, crinkling at the sides as her grip on the letter hardened dangerously, threatening to tear that damned piece of paper and its polite words in blocky, unrefined handwriting messily in half.

   She was pulled out of her mild hysteria by Jamie's hand on her arm, and things finally registered, he had asked her what she was reading, why she was trembling. She didn't even realize her cheeks were wet with tears.

  She didn't have the heart to answer him immediately, and wandered passed him towards her bedroom to prepare for this inevitable, doleful trip to the peak on which her lost love was buried.

* * *

  
   
Many would take the journey to that overlook after the news of Arthur Morgan's demise travelled far enough. All of them Mary hardly recognized, and very few were dry-eyed during the brief exchanges she shared with them when she dared poke her head out for a few extra directions. Jamie had insisted he come with her, to drive the wagon at least, but she had hired a coach shortly after she had finished packing for the excursion, and was gone before noon had the opportunity to bathe the land in a little more sunlight.

  The edge of the hill was mostly devoid of people by the time Mary managed to make the small climb up to the gravesite, tripping over her dress only twice in the process. She should have expected a few stragglers to be lingering, as while she didn't seem to want to admit it out loud, Arthur was a decent enough man, and it shouldn't have been surprising to see people outside of the vaguely familiar mourn his death. What she would never have expected, however, was the hunched figure sitting leisurely amongst the colorful surfeit of flowers planted and placed around the headstone.

  In fact, the oddness of this person gave her pause, from their neatly pressed clothes, to the way they bent over the grave as if an overlarge weight was pressing them down into the dirt, or as if they thought that if they tried hard enough, they would be able to join Arthur Morgan down there, like they could pull him out of the cold embrace of death. A morbid thought to be sure, but even Mary couldn't help but feel that if she could at the very least hold Arthur one last time... Then maybe things would be alright.

   She cleared her throat to get rid of any possible tremble in her voice, and called to the person, "Erm, excuse me—"

   The person didn't move, but there was a slight disturbance of rock to her right, and she caught sight of a large buck retreating swiftly down the crags. She wondered for a moment why she hadn't noticed the creature earlier, but it would be more practical to agonize over the fact that the person before her had maintained their peace with it until she came along.

   "You startled him," the person said, voice subtly tinged with a rasp that the cause for was blatantly obvious. It was prudent to note that it was that moment they decided to lift their head, though, not to look at Mary, but to gaze blankly at the depression of rock the buck had been standing in before the woman had it turn tail, "A beautiful animal, he is."

   "I beg your pardon, but who are you?" She sounded a bit shorter than she felt, but that was only because she had gone there to mourn and this person was preventing her from doing that simply by being there. She was unaware of who this stranger was, what relationship they had with Arthur, and yet their presence made her spine tingle in a not-so-pleasant way. 

  They seemed like they shouldn't have been there. They made her feel like she also had no place being there.

  Instead of responding, the stranger continued on, "That one would've made good meat—a pretty mount over someone's fireplace, don't you think?"

   Puzzled, Mary asked, "I.. I don't think I understand."

    "That's what people usually do to beautiful things."

   The cryptic language only called for further concern. She began to wring her gloved hands, a tic she had been teased about plenty of times by her own brother to the point where she herself detested the habit. She easily flustered, but at this moment she wasn't a blushing damsel. This encounter wasn't one to be had at Arthur's grave, and something was telling her to leave and come back to mend her grievances another day.

   Unfortunately, a morbid curiosity kept her rooted to her spot.

  Again she tried, "Please, who are you, if I may ask?" And her pleading tone may have done some good, because the stranger chuckled.

  "Nobody," they said solemnly, the breeze carrying their near whispered words to Mary's ears, "Nobody important—at least, not as important as I thought I was."

   This speck of candor gave her courage, and maybe a little bit of faith in the stranger, so she took a step forward, shortening the bridge between herself and the enigma in front of her. Perhaps due to sympathy, she was compelled to give them comfort. Hell, all of them needed it these days, "You knew him well, then?"

   "Better than most people. Probably."

  She watched as they brought up a hand and traced their fingertips over the inscription on the stone, over the word 'righteousness' in such a delicate manner that Mary nearly questioned her own relative closeness to Arthur.

   She wouldn't have thought the stranger could curl around themselves any further, but they indeed made a pitiable sight. Their shoulders shook slightly, but no sound came from them that told Mary exactly what that would've meant.

   "You know that he loved you, Mary Linton, don't you?" Their hoarsness returned, and Mary was startled into taking back that step forward.

   Before she knew it, her eyes were stinging again.

  Yes, of course she knew.

  But how did this person know?

  "—And he knew you loved him," the stranger sniffed wetly, yet their voice was a bit steadier now, "He knew you loved him back. But it just wasn't worth it, was it?"

   She wanted to take offense, wanted to take them by the ear and tell them off for assuming that what they had couldn't have been good, couldn't have been wonderful. But now, the stranger was on their feet and turning to face her. Besides, they were right anyway.

   "Well, whatever," they sighed and kicked at a stray pebble in the dirt, "It doesn't matter anyway, I don't have any more time here in the first place." Without another word, or even a glance at her, they meandered passed her and descended the hill.

   Just like that, Mary was alone again.

   However confused that entire encounter left her, now that she was by her lonesome, finally, she could mourn, and the oppressive air that was falling off the stranger in droves seemed to have dissipated. She approached the headstone, her hands still wringing through each other, and knelt amongst the flowers. That's when the tears were allowed to fall freely. That's when Mary inevitably read the epitaph messily carved into the headstone, and promptly broke down.

   _**BLESSED ARE THOSE WHO HUNGER AND THIRST FOR RIGHTEOUSNESS**_

    "O Arthur..." She sobbed, absolutely hopeless to the thoughts that had then begun to assault her.

    So many regrets.

    So many what ifs.

  She knew that it was insight that led her to this very moment. The second that Arthur allowed Dutch van der Linde's outstretched hand to pull him up from his own loneliness and destitution, the chance at a proper life would be absolutely obliterated.

   Even then, part of her desperately wished she could have another chance to have and to hold. To give him what they both had desired from the beginning. To have not wasted all that time. All those damn years.

   She cried and cried until she regained the strength to tug her hankerchief from her coat pocket and dab at her cheeks and eyes with at least a smidgen of poise.

   Correction: the stranger was wrong, it definitely would have been worth it. The contrite pang in her middle was too strong for her to agree that being with Arthur, the one thing that made her happiest, wouldn't have been worth all the risk and sacrifices. 

  A familar disturbance—the * _clack clack_ * of cleft hooves and loose rock—caused her to snap her head up to her right.

   There, standing proud betwixt the indented mounds of rock, was the buck. It was staring dead at her, looking on almost curiously with its ears and tail erect in cautious alarm. He was tall, stocky, with deadly antlers as great and mighty as the largest eagle's wingspan. And there was an intelligence in his eyes, a fire that made his next movements less surprising than they should've been.

   Once he gleaned that Mary was not herself aggressive, his stance relaxed. They eyed each other for a moment longer, one curious and one outright shocked at the current state of events. After that moment passed, the buck leapt off in the same direction Mary had come, the same direction the stranger had left.

   Now it surely _was_ only the grave and Mary Linton sitting quietly in the wind, accompanied by the gorgeous view of the wilderness below.

   He truly was a beautiful animal.

**Author's Note:**

> This is honestly the most symbolism I've put into any project ever.


End file.
